


dim the lights (sing you songs full of sad things)

by betakids (orphan_account)



Category: Hotel Artemis (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Canon Compliant, Confrontations, Everybody Lives, Fluff and Humor, Introspection, M/M, Short One Shot, don't ask me what im doing, erotically charged conversation thats not really erotic at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 14:52:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15665448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/betakids
Summary: His throat’s still parched.He may have to get used to that.





	dim the lights (sing you songs full of sad things)

**Author's Note:**

> SO TUMBLR USER @TELLIEF MENTIONED A GHOST AU AND WELL..... here we are . i wrote this in a FRANTIC fugue state so oh well if it isnt that good ive been having a dry spell lately
> 
> title is from good old fashioned lover boy by queen but u probably know that already

The first word out of his mouth when he wakes in the hospital is “Jeanie?”

 

The next is “Goddamnit.”

 

-

 

Orian Franklin has never considered himself a religious man. He’s too- Too cynical for that. World-weary, maybe.

 

He thinks, though, that there may be something to be said about balance, there may be something teetering back and forth on golden scales of justice bigger than he could ever hope to be. His ice makes a pleasant sounding clink against glass when he sets his drink down on the table. At least, that’s the mantra he adopts when he needs to justify things to himself. There’s little point to driving all the way out to the ocean with a dead body in the trunk if he doesn’t think there’s some meaning behind it. Karmic retribution taken into his own hands makes up the majority of his body count.

 

This makes little sense. It’s bullshit- simply put.

 

He sits up in his bed in the Niagara Suite with little more than a dry mouth and mild headache- even less than that, a buzz like white noise pulsing somewhere behind his temple. He shifts carefully, and feels his sheets (sweat damp) move against his outstretched legs. The memories he has of whatever previous activities he were up to are hazy, scattered, _fuzzy._ The drugs slowed everything down into one long filmstrip of medicines and needles and knives, shards of ceramic and coughing up blood, used bandages and Jeanie looking at him like that, all- all _angry,_ hurt and lashing out. Everything tends to blur together when he tries to parse through details, edges fading together like paints on a watercolor page.

 

So, he sighs. Shakes his arms out. He could swear there’s something more important, something frightening even, that isn’t _sticking,_ but he ignores it for now. There’s more important things to be worried about- whatever the fuck Jeanie did to him worked, even if it gave him nightmares and possible trauma, because he feels fucking _fine_ now. Jesus, he has to make sure Crosby didn’t shit the bed the short time he left the kid in charge, and he has to do something about the riots, anyway. Get to a safer location, at least.

 

He reaches for the glass of water on his bedside table, resting innocuously next to a blister pack of pills.

 

The water pours out his throat and down his shirtfront.

 

“Fuck.” He says to the stale air.

 

(His throat’s still parched).

 

(He may have to get used to that).

 

-

 

He finds Acapulco fairly quickly, all things considered. As far as Orian can tell so far, nobody can see him, so one more patron doesn’t matter all that much in grand scheme of things. In his panic-induced stumble out of his room- the one where he ripped his IV out of his arm to no blood and tripped right through the wall in front of him, staring at his hands the whole time- he encountered exactly two people. One was the Nurse’s surrogate son, the big one, someone inconsequential. The second was the girl who had killed him ( _if_ she had killed him, he doesn’t know what he is now but he’s sure it isn’t dead). She looks like she had taken a beating herself, battered up and bruised, but limping her way back to her suite with her arm slung around the big guy’s shoulders.

 

Orian had tilted his chin up when he saw them coming, current spectral status or not, he wasn’t one to cower or to avoid his issues- they had walked straight through them. He swears he saw the girl shiver, briefly, going through him.

 

But this guy- he blinks and looks up as soon as he hears Orian enter the room. He waves. The left side of his head isn’t mangled, per say, but there’s two disturbingly large puncture wounds right on the side of it. The guy is small, expensive but gaudy _,_ he’s draped himself over the only couch (shoes and all), shirt fanned open as if to accentuate his fucking chest hair. He looks bored. Vindictive. His fingers- the ones with these big, golden, ostentatious rings on them- are tapping a quick rhythm against his knee, like he has some type of poorly-contained manic energy. He looks like a lap dog, pampered, yippy, row of little sharp teeth. Orian chooses not to see the mustache.

 

“Shit, she really got you, huh?” this guy says, gesturing briefly to the ground next to the couch, “I’m Stone. Manfred. Acapulco suite. Take a seat.”

 

Orian blinks. Pauses. He keeps his tone level, soft, “Excuse me?”

 

Acapulco snorts, all smug and self-satisfied like he either he doesn’t realize what he’s saying or he has a fucking death wish. (And his fingers haven’t stopped fucking _twitching)._ “Yeah, you heard what I said. I mean- what are you gonna _do_? Kill me? Whatever _hotshot_ , I had to put up with your stupid son who- who just, ugh, god, I don’t even know what he said before he fucked off somewhere, but it pissed me off. _JESUS_ , I’ve had a bad day enough already, I don’t need you- you _pack animals_ getting your panties in a twist and-”

 

Orian hums carefully, keeps his face impassive and pushes his sunglasses up onto his forehead with a brief flick. Acapulco falls silent mid-sentence as he watches, there’s a brief flicker of something interesting- frightened, like a rabbit, (twitchy, ha, funny)- across his face before it settles back into something more spiteful. More entitled. Orian takes a moment to look the man up and down, slowly, taking everything in, and Acapulco stays  _silent_ while he does.

 

So, his son is dead. Or not dead. His son is in the same boat that the two of them are. The information probably doesn’t make him as sad as it should.

 

(Acapulco is wearing Louboutins, Saint Laurent- everything about him speaks to someone almost cartoonishly rich, never downplayed, like someone who grew up  poor trying to emulate what they thought wealth would mean. His hair looks like it used to be in a careful coiffe but is now _disheveled,_ falling in his big, big eyes in piecy chunks. That- that detail, paired with  his little movements that honestly are starting to look more and more like a cornered, defensive animal-  It makes Orian’s mouth a touch drier.)

 

And there may be more people, too, there’s no guarantee that the three of them are the only ones who died that night. He knows there must have been other patients in dire straits when the power flickered out.  Meeting this man, it raises a lot more questions than it answers. It’ll take a few days of testing boundaries to at least figure out the limitations of their post-mortem situation.

 

(Oh, maybe Pulco sniffles like that because he’s a _cokehead._ It would make a lot of sense. He has something caked under his fingernail, anyway. And he’s a pretty little thing, Orian won’t deny that, but he’s _rude_ and _sleazy,_ really, just _gross-_ but so, so strangely magnetic in the way he lets his shoes flake mud and carnage onto the velvet beneath him, the way he bares his throat without realizing it. He seems to be packed full of contradictions- terrified, of the situation and of Orian, but talking shit and splaying himself out all confident  to overcompensate. Angry, but not taking anything into his own fucking hands. It’s confusing. Fascinating, almost.)

 

Acapulco visibly _ruffles_ after enough time, but his eyes are still so wide, so expressive, following all his movement closely, “Hey, jabroni-”

 

“Not now, sweetheart.” Orian murmurs, “Grown ups are talking. Or, well, _thinking_. That’s more appropriate.”

 

“You- that’s-” And _god,_ it’s deeply satisfying how stricken Pulco looks, how he opens and closes his mouth in indignation, flushing deeply, “Jesus goddamn _christ!_ Shut the fuck up! Listen, jackass, as far as I’m concerned we’re both FUCKING DEAD, and whatever authority you THOUGHT YOU HAD died at about the same-”

 

Orian looks up. Pulco freezes, again. Maybe it’s starting to become a bit of a pattern. “Listen, baby,” he says, “we dont _know_ that youre, uh, entirely _deceased_ , at the moment. And, need I remind you, it would be very much in my interests to find out what would happen to one of us if we did get- and god forbid- _irreparably_ injured in this state.”

 

Acapulco shuts up. Orian can almost feel him shiver. He smiles.

 

“Don’t fret!” He continues, “ I’m not going to do that, honey, because I _like_ you. And because that would be, be quite counterproductive to what I set up this place for in the first place, wouldn’t you say?”  

 

Acapulco deflates, ever so slightly. “Ok.” he bleats. “So you own this shithole. You getting killed here in the first place seems pretty fuckin’ counterproductive to me.”

 

That startles a laugh out of him- it bubbles up unexpected and once it’s out of his mouth he can’t control it. He feels hysterical, god, he needs to figure something out. Pulco watches him with a mixture of amusement and some of that original smugness returning to his face, swinging his legs off of the couch and back onto the ground. He doesn’t bother to dust all the shit from his shoes off the cushion.

 

“Least this is like, your _place,_ ” Acapulco says, pouty, “Me? I didn’t ask to get _stuck here._ I _hate it_ here.”

 

Orian makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a groan, putting a hand over his eyes, “Just because I built it doesn’t mean it’s not a fucking nightmare.”

 

Pulco snorts. “Fucking TV's broken, too. Can’t even touch technology like this without it going crazy.”

 

“In any case, I’m sure we’ll find some way to entertain ourselves.”

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on twit @weedsbian
> 
> tumblr: driftcompvtible  
> strictly HA tumblr: niapulco
> 
> u probably know THAT already tbh hello 3 people still reading niapulco fic


End file.
